Darkness and Daylight eBook

Five weeks went by—­five weeks of busy talk
among the villagers, some of whom approved of the
engagement, while more disapproved. Where was
that proud Southerner? they asked, referring to Arthur
St. Claire. They thought him in love with Edith.
Had he deserted her, and so in a fit of pique she
had given herself to Richard? This was probably
the fact, and the gossips, headed by Mrs. Eliakim
Rogers, speculated upon it, while the days glided by,
until the five weeks were gone, and Edith, sitting
in Grace’s boudoir, read, with eyes which had
not wept since the day following her betrothal, the
following extract from Arthur’s letter to his
cousin:

“Richard and Edith! Oh! Grace, Grace!
I thought I had suffered all that mortal man could
suffer, but when that fatal message came, I died a
thousand deaths in one, enduring again the dreadful
agony when in the Deering woods I gave my darling
up. Oh, Edith, Edith, Edith, my soul goes after
her even now with a quenchless, mighty love, and my
poor, bruised, blistered heart throbs as if some great
giant hand were pressing its festered wounds, until
I faint with anguish and cry out, ’my punishment
is greater than I can bear.’

“Still I would not have it otherwise, if I could.
I deserve it all, aye, and more, too. Heaven
bless them both, Richard and his beautiful singing
bird. Tell her so, Grace. Tell her how I
blessed her for cheering the blind man’s darkness,
but do not tell her how much it costs me to bid her,
as I now do, farewell forever and ever, farewell.”

It was strange that Grace should have shown this letter
to Edith, but the latter coaxed so hard that she reluctantly
consented, repenting of it however when she saw the
effect it had on Edith. Gradually as she read,
there crept over her a look which Grace had never
seen before upon the face of any human being—­a
look as if the pent-up grief of years was concentrated
in a single moment of anguish too acute to be described.
There were livid spots upon her neck—­livid
spots upon her face, while the dry eyes seemed fading
out, so dull, and dim, and colorless they looked, as
Edith read the wailing cry with which Arthur St. Claire
bade her his adieu.

For several minutes she sat perfectly motionless,
save when the muscles of her mouth twitched convulsively,
and when the hard, terrible look gave way—­the
spots began to fade—­the color came back
to her cheeks—­the eyes resumed their wonted
brilliancy—­the fingers moved nervously,
and Edith was herself. She had suffered all she
could, and never again would her palsied heart know
the same degree of pain which she experienced when
reading Arthur’s letter. It was over now—­the
worst of it. Arthur knew of her engagement—­blessing
her for it, and pitying he would not have it otherwise.
The bitterness of death was past, and henceforth none
save Grace and Victor suspected the worm which fed
on Edith’s very life, so light, so merry, so
joyous she appeared; and Edith was happier than she